


Messengers

by sheafrotherdon



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Gay Immortals, Devotion, M/M, Theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25573675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: Yusuf kisses him, a kiss that asks for more than the reassurances he has offered, that claims something from the infinite.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 69
Kudos: 535





	Messengers

It seems to Yusuf that Nicolò has been troubled of late. Something preoccupies him; his attention wanders from their journey, and his conversation is short. He places unerring trust in Yusuf, that he will guide them both to their destination, but he frowns and chews on his lip, even grumbles to himself on occasion. It has been five days, perhaps six, Yusuf thinks, and he has yet to ask Nicolò to tell him his thoughts. He is patient, and has the sense that Nicolò wrestles with something too large, too complex to name. And there is time enough, he thinks.

They sit companionably beside the fire that evening as the heavens shift overhead. Yusuf is lost in the constellations, in judging his distance from home by the tilt of familiar stars and the presence of new ones, when Nicolò clears his throat.

“Do you think . . .” Nicolo’s voice trails away.

Yusuf turns his head, admires the beauty of Nicolò’s profile in the firelight. “Think?” he prompts.

Nicolò looks discomfited, as though he sits on something uncomfortable. “No matter.”

Yusuf watches him with fond concern. “Perhaps whatever it is will feel easier once it is shared.”

Nicolò’s mouth twitches in a smile and he looks directly at Yusuf, his affection transparent. “You are now a man of wisdom?”

“I have always been a man of wisdom,” Yusuf scoffs. “What else would explain my presence here, with you?”

Nicolò’s smile grows broader and he looks down at his hands, flushing. It is still so new a thing between them, this delight. “Then tell me,” he says at last, looking back at Yusuf, setting his shoulders as if what he has to say takes courage. “Do you think we might be angels?”

Yusuf’s mind is not unlike a sudden abyss. “That we might be . . .”

“Angels,” Nicolò says again.

Yusuf nods, accepting the weight of his question. He turns it over in his mind, testing its limits with his own thoughts, in reference to his feelings—the tightness in his chest and the tingling in his fingertips. He thinks of all that he has been taught, of an angel’s lack of bodily desires, and eyes Nicolò doubtfully across the fire. “It is hard for me to believe I am a messenger of Allah,” he says at last.

“But we are not demons?” Nicolò asks, swallowing hard.

Yusuf shakes off his thoughts about Nicolò’s body and pushes himself up to stand, rounds the small fire to sit at Nicolò’s side, murmuring reassurance. He passes a hand over Nicolò’s hair, rests it at the nape of Nicolò’s neck. “We are not evil, you know this.” They have talked this over so often since waking that last impossible time and knowing their destiny was not to fight. Yusuf recognizes Nicolò’s great heart, his kindness, his humility. 

“We are not mortal,” Nicolò presses. “Where do we fit?” He gestures to the stars, to the desolate scrub around them. Turning his head, he presses a kiss to Yusuf’s wrist and looks back at his own hands.

Yusuf’s heart aches at the solemnity of the moment, for all that Nicolò has been carrying. “Perhaps nowhere,” he offers. “Perhaps everywhere.” He leans to press a kiss to Nicolò’s temple. “Tell me.”

Nicolò sighs. “This . . .” He gestures helplessly. “Perhaps we are messengers.”

Yusuf sits back to consider the idea, rests his hand on Nicolò’s knee. 

Nicolò takes it, rubs his thumb over the ring on Yusuf’s finger. 

“It is hard to imagine Jabril ever felt as confused as this,” Yusuf offers after much thought.

Nicolò huffs a breath of laughter. “There is no record of it in our books, I will concede.”

“Surely, if we were to be messengers, our purpose would be clearer?” Yusuf asks. All that his heart knows is bound up in this man beside him. All knowledge of love, of its unreachable limits and tight, constricted spaces, has led him here. The impossible is locked within their bodies, altering their physicality, their minds, their everyday theology. “Surely we would have powers we do not have—to appear in dreams and visions, to . . .”

Nicolò looks at him. “How do we know that we do not appear to others whose paths we have not yet crossed?” He shakes his head. “What can we know of living forever yet not being God? Perhaps angels are called to purpose only when their time arrives.”

It is a possibility, Yusuf thinks.

“And besides, we . . .” Nicolò shifts beside him.

Yusuf looks at him, curiously. “We?”

Nicolò shifts a little, the better to face him. “Is it possible that we are meant . . .” His expression changes—a wince, an uncertain mirthless smile. “The world constantly shakes apart from hatred, and yet we two are bound to one another, beyond all that our birth should have allowed.”

Yusuf has never loved as he loves Nicolò—neither so steadily nor so deep, his heart beating with a purpose he was never taught to want. His throat tightens, thick with emotion. “This is what you have been thinking? That this—that we . . .”

“I know that I cannot die, and that while I live I will love you,” Nicolò says in a rush. He links his fingers with Yusuf’s. “This cannot be a curse. I have thought long and hard and it is a gift, Yusuf, to call you mine, to lie with you. By our living, perhaps we can show others . . .”

Yusuf reaches up to cup Nicolò’s face, studies the familiar contours, thumbs the slant of his cheekbone and leans in to capture Nicolò’s lips in a gentle kiss. He is so good. “I care to do my best in this world,” he says softly. “I do not know what that makes me. Perhaps we shall discover our purpose in time.”

Nicolò nods. “And until then?”

Yusuf kisses him, a kiss that asks for more than the reassurances he has offered, that claims something from the infinite. “We shall love,” he agrees, and receives Nicolò’s kiss in return.

**2019**

Joe is quiet after the meeting with Copley--sits in the back of the car beside Nicky and stares off into middle distance as Andy navigates them away from the city and out toward the safe house in Wales. His quiet is unsettling, and Nicky reaches for his hand, is reassured by the way Joe tangles their fingers even if he doesn’t look over. Joe absently rubs his thumb over Nicky’s, a sure sign that he’s thinking something over, and Nicky wonders if it’s Booker, if he’s still turning their decision over in his mind. Behind Joe’s fury is anguish, he knows, and surely he is owed time with that feeling.

Nile hooks up her phone to the car’s audio, and it’s easy to be distracted after that.

Wales is overcast and damp, but the safe house is comfortable. Nicky cooks, losing himself in the rhythm of chopping and stirring, things he can do automatically while his thoughts are with Joe, who’s wandering the perimeter of the property. Joe’s reserved at dinner, despite the conversation, despite the wine, a little slower to laugh than he would usually be, and worry gnaws at Nicky’s heart. He nudges Joe’s knee with his own under the kitchen table, raises an eyebrow, and gets a smile and a shake of Joe’s head as an answer. 

“Are you going to tell me?” Nicky asks once they’re alone in their bedroom. Joe pulls off his shirt and lets it drop on the floor. Everything about him suggests a weariness that does nothing to lessen Nicky’s concern.

Joe sighs. “I don’t know that it will make any sense.” He shakes his head. “The noticeboards, at Copley’s, they . . .” He gestures helplessly.

Nicky waits, tries to still his own thoughts and stop them from running ahead of themselves.

Joe keeps undressing, and Nicky follows suit. He sets his gun on the night stand and climbs into bed, watching Joe check the window one last time before he joins him. Nicky props himself up on one elbow as Joe settles on his back and looks at the ceiling.

“Do you remember . . .?” Joe asks at last. “A long time ago. Not long after we stopped killing each other.” He looks over at Nicky. “We had a conversation, once, about angels.”

The memory has dulled with time, but Nicky remembers--remembers impressions of the things he felt as he tried to make sense out of a disordered universe. He remembers how the old stories no longer helped him, offering no guidance to immortality, to the strangeness of life after life after life. But he remembers clearly how fiercely he loved Joe, how certain he was that--out of everything--to love him was right and good. “I wondered if we were messengers,” he says.

Joe nods. “I said I couldn’t imagine it.” He lets out a long breath. “But to see everything -- those last 150 years, to know what we’ve done.”

“You think we are angels?”

“You, maybe,” Joe reaches up to cup his face. “That I can believe.”

“You do not seriously imagine . . .”

“I want Booker to suffer for the pain he caused you,” Joe says fervently. “ I am _glad_ that Merrick is dead. You take that and multiply it through those same ages and --”

“ _Joe_.” Nicky bends to kiss him, a slow, lush kiss into which he pours all his feelings, the things he often finds so difficult to express. He shifts closer, presses a leg between Joe’s thighs and kisses him again, again, until Joe’s mouth is swollen and his own lips smart. 

Joe smiles at him, but there is still something there, some sadness or worry that Nicky can’t pin down. “What if we _are_ messengers?” he asks. “What if the only message I’m able to deliver is pain?”

Nicky looks at Joe’s dear face, at the man who has woken beside him for almost a thousand years, and his heart aches. “I do not know if God exists as he did for us when we talked about messengers so many years ago. But you . . .”

Joe arches an eyebrow in question.

Nicky shakes his head, “I have been loved by you beyond all understanding.”

The corner of Joe’s mouth lifts; his eyes shine. “Nicky . . .”

“And I need no explanation for ‘why’ beyond being put here to love you until our time comes.”

“ _Nicky_ . . .”

“You have been my voice of grace,” Nicky says.

“I’m not --”

“You are everything to me,” Nicky whispers. “Everything.”

Joe lifts his head to kiss him, and Nicky leans into the familiarity of his touch, of his lips, his tongue. “I’m tired,” Joe confesses when they part, and Nicky understands he means more than in body.

He noses Joe’s cheek. “You are not used to thinking so much,” he murmurs, and Joe bats at his shoulder, offers an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

One more lingering kiss, and then Nicky rolls over onto his side, putting himself between Joe and the door. Joe follows, wraps an arm around him and presses his knees behind Nicky’s. Nicky feels the soft press of Joe’s lips against his shoulder.

“You are a good man,” Nicky murmurs, linking their fingers.

“So are you,” Joe replies, his voice low, a rumble against Nicky’s back.

“It is enough,” Nicky says with certainty. 

Joe sighs quietly, and Nicky squeezes his hand. 

“ _Mi amu_ ,” he says into the darkness. “Let me tell you the tales of a good man and the difference he can make in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to siria for beta!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Messengers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697881) by [greedy_dancer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greedy_dancer/pseuds/greedy_dancer)




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